May
There are towel-drying winds.
parks grow soggy with small dogs.
May is an old man riding a bike backwards.
It is oil for the broken engine in the barn.
Wetness folds this way and that
the sky unzips a larkish sunshine.
We hear nestlings in their reservoirs of dew.
New life bubbles in puddles,
the green and tufted arrive out of nowhere,
boys' fish for skittish girls,
beryl buds swell, unclasp and curl.
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